


Coming to Terms

by Klaudie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Hurt, M/M, Poetry, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12432360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klaudie/pseuds/Klaudie
Summary: "Waking from a coma is kind of like emerging from a lake and taking a big gasp of breath, because you've hit the surface and you can truly breathe normally again. Coming to terms with your brother's death is a whole different deal." After a car accident, Matthew must come to terms with his brother's death- even if that means forgetting his brother in the process. Human AU. R/R.





	Coming to Terms

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FFN. This is going to be quite dark. Probably not as dark as some of my other stories, but still pretty dark. This is going to be told in a more kind of freeverse poetry-type form, rather than in a story form. It is told from Canada's point of view, and yes, this is a human au. And because it it a human au, things that are canon in the original plot of Hetalia may not be canon here. That has kind of become my mantra. But please no angry reviews/comments telling me that something that I included here is not canon.

Coming to Terms

. . .

Waking from a coma

It's kind of like

emerging

from a lake,

a big pool of water,

and taking a big gasp of breath,

because you've hit the surface

and you can truly breathe normally again.

Coming to terms

with your brother's death

is a whole different deal.

. . .

Eyes snap open.

Vision is unfocused.

Everything seems blurry.

Why is everything blurry?

I feel dizzy.

Why is there beeping?

Where are those noises coming from?

My chest hurts.

My head hurts.

Everything hurts.

I can't move my legs.

Where am I?

I feel empty.

Where is my brother?

. . .

White.

The walls are white.

Everything is while and pale.

While.

Blank.

Colorless.

White.

. . .

Eyes snap open- again.

This time, people are around.

Everyone is a blank slate.

No faces.

Fuzzy.

Blurry.

Just blank faces.

Slates ready to be painted over.

Except for two.

They tell me that they are my two older brothers.

I can tell that they aren't who I am looking for.

They introduce themselves as Arthur and Francis.

They look sad.

Where is my other brother? My twin? I ask.

They shake their heads slowly, tears in their eyes.

Where is Alfred?

. . .

The blank people are doctors

or so I'm told.

No, you don't already know you.

No, they are not blank slates.

They are doctors.

They are people, like you.

Or so they say.

The blank slates- the doctors told me that I was in an accident.

A car crash, they called it.

My brother and I were in that car

when a drunk driver

hit us

in the dead of the night

as we were driving home.

Alfred was in the driver's seat.

I was in the passenger seat.

It was a snowy night.

The driver had pulled a hit-and-run.

The police were hunting for the driver so he didn't get away scot-free.

I was confined to bed with thirteen broken ribs, multiple fractures, a broken leg, a broken arm, and many other injuries.

I had had internal bleeding because my lungs had been punctured, I was told.

It's a miracle that I was alive, they told me.

None of this is important to me.

"Where is my brother?" I ask.

The only answer I get from my older brothers, tears and from the doctors, silence.

. . .

"Where is my brother?" I ask again and again.

Still no clear answer.

Something bad happened.

I can feel it.

. . .

"Where is my brother?"

Arthur and Francis finally give in.

"He's dead."

I can only stare dumbfounded and laugh and laugh and laugh.

. . .

I'm in shock.

At least, that's what the blank faces tell me.

I'm just in shock.

No.

I'm numb.

I can't feel.

I feel just as blank as the doctors look.

Whitewashed.

Pale.

Blank.

White.

He's dead, they tell me.

Alfred is dead.

He was killed instantly.

The only reason that I didn't die was because he saw the truck coming, and he threw his body over mine to protect me.

I would have died if he hadn't, they tell me.

I'm lucky to be alive.

But I wouldn't be alive if he wasn't dead.

My fault.

It was my fault.

He was my other half.

Hell, my everything.

My older twin.

My everything.

I'm half of a whole without him.

I'm without him.

We were a dangerous duo, never meant to be broken.

And yet, we were broken.

I was missing my other half.

. . .

Alfred! Where is Alfred!?

I wake up screaming every night now.

The doctors are puzzled.

They change their diagnosis from shock to mild PTSD, to depression, to numerous other things that make no sense.

No.

None of that is right.

I want Alfred.

My other half.

I want him.

He can't be dead.

He is strong.

He wouldn't die that easily.

He couldn't.

He was a hero.

He was my brother.

He was my everything.

He isn't dead.

They're lying.

This is a nightmare.

And when I wake up, Alfred will be right beside me like always.

I want to wake up.

But they tell me that this isn't a dream.

No, it's not.

It's a waking nightmare.

. . .

I miss him.

Where is Alfred?

Where is my brother?

I want him back.

I want my old life back

the life

before all of this

the life

before we were hit

the life

before he died to save me

the life

that felt so right

the life

that will never come back

to me.

. . .

Arthur

he seems distressed.

Francis too.

They both look worried

frustrated

saddened.

. . .

Francis gave me a stuffed animal

even though I'm eighteen

almost nineteen

in a few months.

He said

that

his name

was Kumajiro

and that

I had had him

since I was

a small child.

He said that

he was a polar bear.

"What is a polar bear?" I had asked.

Francis just looked sad.

. . .

Kuma

doesn't replace Alfred.

. . .

The doctors sent

a new specialist.

A psychiatrist.

To me, they're just another

blank face.

He introduced himself as

Tino Väinämöinen

or Doctor Väinämöinen.

I can't pronounce Väinämöinen.

He

went over my memories with me.

I can't remember a lot.

. . .

Doctor Väinämöinen

my psychiatrist

had two shiny new diagnosis for me.

Acute Stress Disorder

and

Selective Amnesia.

He says

that I'll have to get some form

of therapy

for them

if I want to get better.

I don't want to get better.

I want to wake up.

I want Alfred.

Arthur and Francis look even sadder.

. . .

I had

a breakdown

during therapy.

Memories

came flashing

at me

suddenly

from all different directions

of Alfred

smiling

laughing

crying

of Alfred

dead

lying limply

blood

broken glass

the inside of an ambulance

darkness.

I couldn't stop

screaming.

. . .

Months

pass by

like leaves fall from their trees

one after the other.

(...)

I haven't gotten "better".

The white faces are starting to think that

I never will.

. . .

Doctor Väinämöinen

started a new kind of therapy

today.

Everything

about Alfred

my other half

seems fuzzy.

My memories of him

are fading.

Francis and Arthur cry in the hallway.

I know

because I can hear them

even in my soundproof

whitewashed

blank

room.

. . .

"Who are you?" They ask

"I'm Matthew Williams." I reply

"What are you doing here?" They ask

"I was injured in a car accident with... someone." I reply.

I think.

"Someone... important to me."

"Who was it?" I think

"My other half." I whisper.

I feel dizzy.

I'm forgetting him.

"What is his name?" They ask

"What is he to you?"

"I..."

I think

"I... can't remember."

His face

is turning away from me

towards the sunlight

outlined in a golden

halo of light

I can't remember his face.

Only that bright light.

. . .

"Who are you?" They ask

"Matthew Williams."

My voice is monotone, empty.

I sound like them.

"Why are you here?" They ask

"I was injured in a car accident."

"Was anyone else injured?" They ask.

They are building up for something.

A big question.

I can tell.

"No. Only me."

Why does that statement feel wrong?

"Who are your brothers?"

"M-my brothers are..."

I think.

"Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland."

"and..." My mind whispers."

"Do you have a twin?"

I look at the blank face, puzzled.

"No. I have never had a twin."

"Liar..." My mind whispers.

"You just can't remember..."

"Shut up," I tell my mind.

. . .

The doctors look pleased.

"One more test," They tell me,

"And then you can go home."

They sit me down

in another

unfamiliar

blank room.

All the rooms

here

look the same.

Doctor Väinämöinen sits down with me.

He shuffles some papers.

"Who are you?'

"Matthew Williams."

"Why were you here?"

"I was injured in a car crash."

"Was anyone else injured or killed?"

"No. Only me."

I can answer this with certainty.

"Who was driving your car? Wa anyone else with you?"

"I was driving when I was hit. I was alone."

"Okay. Good." He looks up at me

determination is building in his eyes.

"Do you have a twin?"

I look at him blankly.

"No. I have never had a twin."

If he had a proper face, he's be smiling now.

"One last question. Does the name Alfred Foster Jones mean anything to you?"

I think.

It rings no bells.

I take a deep breath.

I feel empty as I speak.

"No."

"It means nothing to me."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: ANGST! YAY! I'm sorry.


End file.
